


The Salesman and The Hitman

by Vituperative_cupcakes



Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: AU, Gen, switcheroo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 08:38:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1772743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vituperative_cupcakes/pseuds/Vituperative_cupcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lorne Malvo is bored with his Job at Rundle Realty. He can't shift houses and the work is mind-numbing. Then he shows a house to a guy called Sam Hess who isn't who he says he is. The bodies start piling up and Lorne starts down a path that will inevitably end...in Fargo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginnings

Lorne Malvo sat in his car and had a cup of coffee and hated his job. He had hated it almost before he'd started at Rundle Realty, and he continued hating it through years of awkward small talk at water coolers and Christmas parties too boring to drink away. Every day he showed a house to a prospect, he pulled up early and then spent five minutes willing himself to get out of the car and make the sale. Right now he sucked at the coffee, streaming it past his teeth, and squinted at the house. A colonial nightmare, the previous owners had been growing in the backyard and let the rottweiler shit in the house. Whenever he showed people the back bedroom, they invariably smelled it and politely excused themselves. They never even stayed long enough to find out that bats nested in the garage, or that the back patio ended four toe-stubbing inches above the lawn. It was a dud house, and Buzz had known that when he'd dumped it on him. Buzz Mead who had been top salesman during the dot-com bubble burst could not sell this place.

Lorne had enough trouble shifting houses as it was. Year after year, Lorne's little car magnet barely passed the start line on the whiteboard in the office, while others screeched forward with the fuel of their sales. He was not good at realty. He could admit that. People didn't like his offputting demeanor, or his tendency to ask odd questions. But one talent that Lorne did have was the art of mimicry. Now he put on Buzz Mead's face, his shit-eating grin, his bumbling good-natured stupidity. His IQ a few degrees cooler, Lorne got out of the car.

The guy was waiting by the front door. They always got out of the car before he got there and paced the lawn, as if they could measure the value of the place that way. Lawns got people. Lorne got people, but in a different way.

Lorne remembered to smile. The guy hadn't looked over yet; he had his head back, hands on his hips, squinting at the second-story windows. He was a little shorter than Lorne, who was no basketball player. He'd been ginger once, now it was fading to a clean gray that was parted fussily on the side. Despite the heat, he wore a suit and tie that looked freshly pressed.

Lorne ratcheted up his smile a few notches. “Hey there!”

The man kept his body still, turning on his heel like a mannequin on a turntable. He assumed a cheery demeanor a second before turning. Lorne noticed.

“Well, glad I didn't miss ya! You know, this neighborhood's kinda hard to find.”

“Is it?”

This threw the guy off. Lorne tried to restrain himself.

“I'm Lorne,” he said, proffering his hand, “we spoke on the phone.”

The other man took it, taking just a calculating millisecond to look in Lorne's eyes. “Sam. Sam Hess. Mighty glad.”

Sam had a firm handshake. It was the handshake of an honest man. Lorne immediately suspected it, because the kind of people who wanted to buy a house on La Vista court had handshakes like a wet flounder.

“Well, Señor Hess,” Lorne said, “what is it you do?”

“Insurance,” Hess said automatically.

Lorne nodded. He didn't know what to do with that. “Well, that's...people need that, don't they?”

Hess seemed slightly relieved at Lorne's statement. “Oh yeah, every mother's son of us. Anything can happen. People die. They lose their homes. They go to prison. Calamity is always peeking right around the corner.”

“Is it?” Lorne was genuinely interested.

Hess let out a practiced chuckle. “Between you 'n me, these rental homes are great hunting grounds. People let the pets scratch up the carpet, get flooded out, or they lapse on premiums. Renters don't think of the future. They don't even notice the bottom before it falls out from beneath them. Always read the fine print, my friend, always read the fine print.”

Lorne whistled low. “Can't say I've thought much about insurance. This is what you might call a transitional city. People move in, move out. All chasing something better I guess. I'm lucky if they don't run out early on their lease.”

Hess's smile tightened a fraction. Lorne had already pegged him as a runner, now he doubted he'd last a month. Maybe a dealer, or better yet, a dealer's contact. With luck this house would be like a reenactment of _Breaking Bad_.

Lorne held up the hand with the keys. “Shall we?”

Sam made all the right noises and asked all the little questions Lorne expected. Yes the outlets all worked. The water was good, but had a definite body to it so a filter on the sink would be a good idea. Neighbors were quiet, but the kid two houses down had an electric guitar and an amp, though he could always call someone if the noise went past 10pm.

The funny thing Lorne noticed about Sam was that he didn't really look at the house. He pretended to make cursory examinations of the walls and floors and everything in between, but Lorne could tell he had made up his mind before even walking in the front door.

Just for kicks, Lorne took him past _the_ room. Sam crinkled his nose and said, “oh yeah, fine, fine,” and quickly stepped away.

Right around the second-floor bedroom, Sam turned to him with an ingratiating smile and said, “I'll take it.”

Lorne smiled. “Well that's funny.”

Sam's lip curled back, showing eyeteeth. It wasn't really a smile. “How's that?”

“Normally people wait until after I show them the whole house. They take some time to think about it. In fact the soonest I've heard back from someone is a week. At least.”

Sam chuckled. “Well, I guess you've got me by the short 'n curlies.” He pretended to twist his own arm behind his back. “I got a raging bull of a wife, she wants a little seperation. We're staying with her folks and I am one clogged drain away from alimony payments.”

Lorne watched his face as he talked. None of the microexpressions on his face really connected with what he was saying. It was amusing.

“And she's fine with it?”

“Hmm?” Sam seemed tripped up again.

“Your wife? She'll let you lease a house, sight unseen? She makes you stay with her folks, not yours, but she trusts your judgment enough to let you look at a house without her?”

Sam's mouth wavered between open and shut. Lorne decided this probably wasn't the best way to sell the house and switched tactics.

“Lemme show you the rest of the place before you go.”

Sam stammered something and let himself be led down the stairs.

Lore took unnatural delight in showing his prospect down to the basement. The previous tenants had turned it into yet another growing operation, UV lights were still stacked in the corner. Lorne watched his face with mild amusement as he led him across the concrete floor.

“...runs the length of the whole house.” He pointed. “Enough room to put in a personal gym _and_ a washer and dryer.”

Sam squinted and pretended to look. “Oh, yeah. Quite a space.”

“Yeah,” Lorne murmured, “could hide a body down here.”

Sam winced. It was small, but it was there.

Lorne led him back to his car. The hope of a sale had long since fled, but Sam turned to him with that pasted-on smile and an open checkbook.

“So who do I fill it out to?”

It was, Lorne thought on the drive home, an interesting day. Not a great one, or particularly good one, but it gave him pause for thought. The days he had like that were few and far between.

He thought nothing of it until four months later when Rundle called him into the office.

Rundle was sitting behind the desk with his customary grave look of concern. He was flanked by a younger man, bearded and sombre.

Lorne came to a stop just before the desk. “Can I sit down, or do you wanna fire me standing?”

Rundle furrowed his brow. “What?”

Lorne shook his head. “Nevermind.”

He took the temperature of the room. It wasn't a firing temperature, but it was serious. Rundle hadn't even loosened his tie. The young man did not look like an efficiency expert.

Rundle held up a hand. “This is Mr. Numbers and Wrench.”

Lorne glanced behind him. Sitting perfectly silent and still in Lorne's blind spot was a tall young man with a very serious look on his face.

The man behind the desk smiled quickly. “Mr. Malvo. Numbers, special detective.”

Lorne indicated behind him with his head. “And him?”

“Wrench. K-9 unit,” the officer said apologetically. “We're here on inquiry about a past customer of yours. Name of Hess.”

“Why?”

“That's classified informa–”

“No, why are you bringing him? You're obviously not in the same unit.”

Numbers blew a sigh up at the ceiling. “Because _someone_ wouldn't wait in the car.”

He heard a shift behind him. When Lorne looked back, Wrench was flipping off Numbers. He smiled in approval.

“Mr. Malvo, if we could get back on topic?” Numbers opened a manila folder. “Is this the same Hess that you showed the house to?”

It was not a good picture of him. The still was from an office camera, and he was facing in a direction three-quarters opposite of the lens, leaving him with very little profile. But there was no mistaking those little hamster ears, that hunched posture, that hair.

Lorne nodded.

Numbers looked grave “He seem...funny to you?”

“Well, his check bounced, if that's what you mean.”

“I mean was he showing unusual interest in anything, asking about certain landmarks, that kind of thing?”

“Not inordinately. What's this about?”

Rundle spoke up. “These officers are from Fargo, criminal investigation.”

“North Dakota?”

“Very astute Mr. Malvo.” Numbers was studying Rundle's map. “most people couldn't find the Midwest on a map.”

Lorne shrugged. “I've got family there.”

“Well, it's true. We are from Fargo, as is Mr. Sam Hess. In fact he's _still_ in Fargo.”

The K9 unit guy moved into Numbers' line of sight. He towered over all of them, but there was a nervousness to his behavior. He was watching Numbers. Waiting, Lorne realized, for some signal.

“We fished Sam Hess from the bottom of a lake. He was in the trunk of his own car.”

“You don't say?”

“He'd been in there since the lake iced over, so nobody saw the car until after the thaw.” Numbers took out another photo. “Here's the real Sam Hess.”

Lorne maintained eye contact, refusing to look down at the paper. “What does that mean to me?”

Numbers furrowed his brow. “Sorry?”

“I obviously didn't see the guy until you showed me the picture, he's been dead for months. What do you want?”

Wrench signaled something. Numbers glanced over distractedly and shook his head.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Malvo, is there anything you can give us to help our investigation?”

Lorne smiled apologetically. “He never said where he was going, what he did, or where he was moving from. Sorry fellas.”

Both policemen stared at him.

“I'll get the check, we still have it on file,” Rundle said, standing, “Lorne, don't tell any weird animal stories.”

When he was gone, Numbers motioned with his chin. “What's with the map? He's got pushpins everywhere but Georgia.”

“Don't ask.”

 


	2. Moonlighting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for character death. Just saying, if you hated the end of episode six, turn back now.

Realty was not a fulfilling profession. Lorne supposed there was a subsection of humanity that found it so, some strange strange evolutionary cul-de-sac that probably enjoyed eating road tar as a recreational hobby. If Lorne never had to eat again, he would quit the housing business entirely. But he had passed all the necessary exams and nothing else, and until recently believed he was stuck with realty as a career choice.

Truth be told, Lorne always believed his particular skill set unsuited to showing houses to families who thought _Duck Dynasty_ was a profound cultural document.

Today, on a whim, he had pulled into La Vista courts, cut the engine five houses down from the house he'd shown to the ersatz Hess, and walked there.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He crossed the lawn to the front door, which was shaded by an overgrown rhododendron, and stood five paces before the doorstep. Kids ran screaming through a sprinkler three lawns away. A mild breeze rustled the leaves of neighborhood trees. There was nothing but the sound of life lived gently in the open.

“I superglued the locks,” Lorne said to the empty air.

The sounds of people living went on. Maybe there was an intake of breath, a murmur so quiet even a bee droning could have drowned it out.

“I can always blame it on neighborhood kids. You can get away with a lot, if you blame it on kids. Has to be the right kind of thing, though. A kid's not going to stash eight pounds of crystal meth in the linen closet. But he might mess with the locks... just as a little teenage prank.”

A man stepped out of the rhododendron as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be hiding behind bushes. He adjusted his tie with one hand, held the other out in greeting.

“Nice to see you, Mr...”

“You know my name.” Lorne kept his hands at his sides. “But I don't think I know yours.”

The smaller man fake-laughed. He was antsy about the upper-right part of his body. Probably had a piece.

“No, you remember? Hess. You showed me the house.”

Lorne looked him dead in the eye. “Oh yeah. Sam.”

“Yeah. Sam.”

“Funny thing...you don't look like a Sam.”

The man's face flicked briefly to irritation, then back to desperate cheer. “I–I'm locked out of my own house. I don't suppose you could...”

“No,” Lorne said.

“What the darn?”

His face screwed up. The smaller man had a Minnesota Nice accent that changed when the situation depended on it, right now it was as thick as noodle casserole.

“That doesn't work now. We've already established I've locked you out. The proper reaction would be outrage. Seeing as your check bounced, you'd be trying to bully me into ignoring the facts.”

Not-Sam stammered, forgetting himself and letting his hand fall away from his shoulder.

“You obviously didn't count on me being here, which tells me you were going to break in and retrieve something. So, Mr. Hess, you have two choices.”

He shut his mouth and glared death at Lorne. It was oddly cute.

“In my left pocket is my cellphone. In my right is the jimmy. So either you tell me some things and I assist you in getting where you want to go, or you try to plug me before I get over there and break your nose and I call the cops. So–” Lorne held his hands out, palms up. “Which is it? Left...or right?”

Hess leveled a steely gaze at him.

“...you knew I was comin' here?”

“Yup.”

“And you didn't call the cops already?”

Lorne smiled and stretched, enjoying the other man's reflexive grab for his shoulder.

“I guess I was curious.”

They stared each other down for a while. Then not-Hess lowered his hands.

“All right, big guy. What do you want to know?”

“What's your name?”

Not-Hess snorted. “How would you know it was real?”

“I wouldn’t. I'm just tired of calling you Sam.”

He licked his lips, studying Lorne. “Don't blame you. Truth be told...I hated being called that. The real Sam was a dick. Fucked my wife.”

Lorne chuckled through his nose. Not-Hess cocked his head warily. He didn't like being laughed at.

“You and your wife really going through separation?”

“Separation,” not-Hess laughed, “I separated her goddamn shoulder.” He swallowed, looking slightly uncomfortable at the statement. “You can call me Lester.”

“Lester?”

“No last name.”

“Wasn't asking, I was just trying it out.”

Lester's small, unguarded smile seemed genuine.

“Well, friend Lester. What is your milieu?”

“My what?”

“What do you do? Drugs, money laundering? Gigolo?”

Lester gazed at him sardonically. “Hits,” he said finally.

Lorne had to laugh. Lester prickled.

“What. Don't believe I’m a hit man?”

“You don't really have the face for it.”

Lester seemed torn between being dissapointed and insulted. Lorne liked that about him. Lorne liked his face.

“Well, I guess that works for me. Fella sees me coming, he's gonna laugh before he shoots. Works out in my favor often enough.”

“You know they're after you?”

“They are?” Lester was suddenly tensed for flight.

“You need to get away. You know, if you tell me where it is, it'll go quicker.”

Lester studied him, licking his lips. “...basement.”

“Ah, you took my advice.” Lorne reached into his right pocket.

The basement had been set up as a sort of washroom. While Lorne held the flashlight, Lester moved the washer away from the wall. It was an old tumble-model, not the agitator kind. Lester levered away the back panel, swearing as he nicked his fingers with the chisel. With screech, the metal finally parted. Lester fished a hammer from somewhere in the back, once retrieved he held it in his cupped hands like a baby. Lorne wondered if there was a story behind that. Usually was.

Something fell upstairs.

Lorne immediately clicked off the light and backed up. There was a hissed curse as Lester stubbed his toe on the washer. Lorne, more familiar with the house's layout, quickly backed up so that he was just beneath the stairs.

A maglight clicked on. Its beam was like daylight, flooding Lester's prone form. He had both hands on the gun, but could not see beyond the light.

“Hands up, Mr. Nygaard. It's over.”

The voice of the guy in Rundle's office. Numbers. What kind of a name was that? Probably code. Lorne supposed his partner was stumbling around upstairs.

“I didn't do nothin'.”

“Nice double negative,” Numbers said, “look, it doesn't have to be any harder than it already is.”

Numbers was probably operating on a hunch, hence the unconventional choice of company. It smacked of a personal investigation, possibly a grudge. Doubtful there was backup.

Lester backed up to the wall. Bad move. Numbers descended the stairs. Worse.

“Put it down,” Numbers' voice was soothing, “we can work something out.”

Lorne struck. He had never killed a human being, but the knowledge that he could had been coiled up inside him somewhere, waiting for this day. Something made him take the chisel to hand, some instinct told him to take Numbers' hair and pulls his head back as he ran the sharpened side across his Adam's apple.

Lester's face was shocked and wash-out pale in the maglight's beam; in the split second before it fell from the cop's hand, he flinched back from the loud rapport from Numbers' gun. The flashlight rolled, illuminating a bare patch of wall. Lester hissed a breath over his teeth and gripped a hand to his armpit. Both men held their breath.

Upstairs was the noise of a bumbling investigation. Had he not heard?

In the peripheral illumination of the beam, Lorne found his way to Lester’s side.

“Hit your side?”

Lester shook his head and removed the hand from his armpit. The wound looked like raw hamburger.

“Better get something on that. Can you stand?”

Lester muttered something.

“What?”

“That cop.”

“ _That_ cop?” Lorne indicated Numbers.

“He just came here alone.”

“No, I’m pretty sure he's got a friend who's just as weird as he is.”

“No, I mean...I’m a killer.” Lester indicated himself. “I’ve killed people. But he just came after me...all on his own. And for what?”

Lorne's turn to study him. “...you're sad that he died?”

Lester shrugged. He was getting pale. “No I just...I don't understand, is all.”

Lorne took his hand and applied pressure. Lester winced, but let him.

“Your problem is you've spent your whole life thinking there are rules. There aren't.” Lorne put their faces level. “That cop probably went after you the legal way, but got nowhere. So he went outside the law. He jumped the fence and this is the consequence. _We're_ the consequence.”

Lester looked as if he wanted to say something, but Lorne tugged his hand and led him out of the basement. There was thumping upstairs, evidently no one had heard the gunshot. Lorne led them out through the garage, because he knew that the southwest corner of the house only had one window, and that was the frosted glass of the bathroom.

They went to his car.

“Do you have somewhere you can go?” he asked Lester. Lester blinked, probably not used to this level of cooperation.

“Oh, ya.”

“Somewhere close enough that you won't bleed to death looking for it?”

Lester held a hand up. “It's mostly stopped...and yeah.”

Lorne threw him the keys.

Lester just stared at them.

“Happy trails,” Lorne said,

Lester stared at the keys, then at Lorne.

“What?”

“Why are you doing this?”

Lorne scratched his beard. He had never actually stopped to consider the question closely.

“Why not?” he said finally.

Lester nodded, puzzled.

“Goodbye, Mr. Malvo.”

Lester peeled away, leaving twin tracks of rubber and, by the sound of it, missing the light.

Lore walked home, hands in his pockets, whistling.

 

 


	3. The Efficiency Expert

Lorne Malvo had just recently killed a cop. Lorne Malvo was currently cooking toaster waffles for breakfast. The two had equal weight in his mind.

Lorne had always known he was different. His tendency to ask odd questions and stare had led most teachers to label him stupid, but he knew he was very intelligent in his own way. Mr. Peters, the sixth-grade science teacher, had never found out who broke into his house and killed his dog. He knew how not to lie, how to braid the truth back on itself until it became something else entirely. He knew how to look completely harmless from the corner of someone's eye.

None of this had made him suited to real estate.

In Lorne's book, a rabbit may be the best hole-digger on the planet, but put him in a swimming contest with a fish and he'd lose. Or drown. Same thing.

Lorne was not worried whether they'd find his prints, or ask after his car, or wonder who it was who superglued the locks in the house on La Vista drive. Lorne was hard pressed to worry about anything this morning.

 

Rundle gave him the stinkeye. “You're an hour late.”

“Walked here.” Lorne stood before the desk.

Rundle squinted. “What's in the thermos?”

“Cofee,” Lorne said.

“What's in the bag?”

Lorne leveled a .45 at his left eye.

Rundle gulped.

“The way I see it, you have two choices. One, tell me where your where your car keys are, I shoot you quick and leave your body somewhere neat. Two, you struggle...and this ends messy.”

Rundle didn't seem to be able to take his eyes off the barrel. “I always knew you were a psycho. What kind of a man brings coffee in a thermos when we have a perfectly good coffee maker in the office?”

“The grounds get stale and nine times out of ten Gail uses a paper towel as a filter,” Lorne said, “anyway, that's not the point. This is me giving my notice. So... which is it?”

Rundle had his palms flat on the desk. There was a fly buzzing somewhere, trapped between the window and the screen.

“Say hi to my wife,” Rundle said.

 

Rundle had one of those four-wheel-drive Subarus. A family car. What the hell a man who never vacationed in his life was doing with a car like this was anyone's guess. Lorne took an easy pace out of town and headed east.

 

He only had one thing to go on: Fargo. But somehow, he knew when he hit the town he would find Lester, somehow, some trace of the man would drift into the open like blood in the water.

It was funny; Lorne was adrift in the world without a job, yet he had never felt so purposeful.

Lorne did have one thing to go on: Lester's check had an address for an insurance business somewhere on Lafayette street. It was probably a dummy company, but most of those had a physical street address, looked more legit. Hell, some of 'em even were businesses, just didn't do a whole lot of business.

The same instinct that had led him to kill a police officer led him to a parking garage not too far from the address, and a small cafe that looked out over the entrance. The building itself was large and foreboding, with a mirrored glass front. It just screamed 'mob' in an unsubtle fashion.

There was a brown Oldsmobile parked parallel to the building across the street, and two gentleman within conversing too passionately to be on their lunch break. They wore suit jackets under thick leather coats and showed no signs of ever getting out of the car. They read 'undercover cop' to Lorne, but something didn't quite _jell._ He considered them as he had the first of what would be many cups of coffee, taking in not only the two men but the street as a whole.

They were too obvious to be a tail. Neither of them had looked at the building once since he'd arrived. The whole thing was wrong; what mobster wouldn't look at a car parked directly across the street for weeks at a time? The bald one gestured: there was a Rolex twinkle from his wrist. Doubtful he got that on a cop's salary.

Lorne knocked on the passenger-side window shortly after lunch. The plumper one still had ketchup residue clinging to the sides of his mouth. Lorne banked on them being too full to be aggressive.

Their conversation leaked out to him.

“–no, all I'm saying is, you've got a baby—five babies—on the railroad track, right?'

“What the hell are babies doing on the tracks? Who the hell even has that many babies to spare?”

Lorne knocked again.

“You're missing the point. Look, okay, you've got five babies on the one, okay? And you've got, like, thirty babies on the other—”

“Come the fuck on, man.”

“—thirty babies, and you got a switch in front of you, okay? And there's a train coming down the tracks, okay? And there isn't time to do anything but hit the switch—”

Lorne rapped with his whole fist.

They both started, the bald one's hand flew to his hip. Lorne smiled tightly and made a roll-down-your-window gesture. The plump one one obliged.

“Hello, officer?”

They both immediately went shifty-eyed.

“I'm sorry, sir, who told you we were police?”

The plumper one's voice dropped an authoritative octave.

“The plates,” Lorne said, “my brother-in-law up in Kugler told me you guys always have that little serial number in the upper left?” He shrugged. “Traffic cop. Angie says she's happy.”

Like most people, the two took him at face value.

“You know son, you're endangering us by talking here,” the one closest to him said.

Lorne laughed and said, “I'm very sorry officer...”

“Pepper.”

“Oh yah, officer Pepper,” Lorne said, “but I heard a rumor that there's a guy in the area who's been tampering with people's cars and then following them home. The car'll be running just fine and then outta nowhere—kerplonk. And me, I just saw a suspicious guy in the parking garage and I think ' _hey, you better tell someone_.' And I just figured you fine gentlemen would be on your lunch break, seeing as you're still wearing some of it.”

The bald officer had a chuckle at his partner's expense as Pepper furiously napkined his chin.

“Sir,” the bald officer, “I'm impressed at your civilian knowledge, but this really isn't a good time.”

Lorne nodded. There were scratches on the driver's side window, someone had tried to pop the lock with a coat hanger. There was an empty can of cola on the floor that could potentially roll beneath the pedals. The rear-view mirror had been broken off and fixed with superglue, it listed to the side slightly, so there was a blind spot between the driver's side mirror and the rear-view.

All this Lorne took in in the space between heartbeats.

“So if your car randomly stops in the middle of nowhere and some dude comes out in a hockey mask swinging a hatchet at you? Yeah, call us. But for now, please go about your business. Whatever that is.”

Lorne's grin remained at enough wattage to cook a freezer burrito. Both men stared back at him.

He said, “you know I had a dog once. Tied it to a pole in the yard with a length of chain and a bowl of food. And every time, without fail, that dog would circle counter-clockwise until it was too tight up against the pole to move. Never moved the other direction. Never went out in a straight line chasing squirrels. Just winding and winding itself around the pole. And everytime I went out there it would give me this...look. Like he was saying, 'what? What'd I do?' ”

Both men still stared.

Lorne gave them a sharp wave and walked deliberately away down the passenger-side of the vehicle, covertly knocking the mirror askew with his coat. While they scrambled on that side, he popped open the gas tank and inserted a ping-pong ball. He decided that had been enough for the day and went to fetch his car.

Next to the Subaru, awkwardly attempting to fish a ring of keys from a coat pocket with stiff leather gloves, was a familiar silhouette.

“You drive an Explorer?” Lorne said.

The man did not start, but defensively braced his body against it. That in and of itself was intensely satisfying.

Lester swallowed with a dry click. “How did you find me?”

Lorne took a moment to answer, enjoying the pause. “I didn't. You found me.”

Lester turned around with what he probably thought was a very fierce look, hand dipping into his other pocket. He put his face forward so that their noses were only an inch apart.

“Look,” he hissed, “I don't know what kind of game you're playing. I don't know if you want your car back—I can get it back if that's the issue—but this isn't cute anymore.”

Lorne smiled a big, dopey grin. “You ever had bacon cinnamon rolls?”

Lester fumbled after thought for a moment. “...what?”

“They had 'em at the little cafe I was at today. Truth be told I don't really care for them. But apparently the next big thing.”

Now Lester was smiling with angry eyes, jerkily nodding his head. “Oh ya, so that's it huh—that's it? You're just gonna f–” he slammed his fist down on the car, “you're gonna drive all the way out here just to mess with my head?”

Lorne tilted his head. “You know if you're having trouble grabbing something like your car keys, you probably won't be able to pull the trigger on that piece you got there. Probably drop it, shoot something on accident. Draw attention.”

Lester took a long, sharp breath in through his nose. “Get in the car.”

Lorne bounced on the seat a bit as Lester buckled in. “Nice. My car has no room on the inside.”

Lester shook his head. “Stop saying stuff for a while, alright? I gotta think.”

“You on a job?”

“Boy howdy.” Lester watched his rearview and made a thirty-point-turn out of the parking space.

“You know the car's not going to break if you tap it against something.”

Lester frowned and tightened his hands on the wheel.

“I really don't know what you expect from me,” he said once they were out on the road, “you know what I do, you know what I'm about...what the heck are you doing here, Lorne Malvo?”

Lorne cleared his throat. “We had an efficiency expert come in one year, to give us a pep talk.”

Lester drove for a few tense seconds. “...What?”

Lorne said, “This was right around Glengarry Glen Ross. Gave this whole Alec Baldwin speech, sounded more like Billy Baldwin. Told us to stick people in the houses by all means, railroad 'em into signing checks they couldn't necessarily back up. Gave us all these little tricks, like touchin' 'em on the arm, showing a little tooth, or cleavage for the gals. Know what my Christmas bonus was? Set of steak knives.”

Lester wet his lips.

“My point is, Lester, I wasn't doing anything too important.”

Lester turned to him at a red light. “so you decided to see me?”

“Boy howdy.”

Lester chewed the inside of his cheek. His hair was mussed, not stylishly, the look of a man not used to grooming himself but suddenly pressed into service. There was no wedding ring tan line but Lester habitually rubbed the place it would be with his thumb. He had circles under his eyes, hadn't been sleeping too well. Probably buried at the “office.” Probably going through a bad patch. Probably not at 100% at the moment.

A beatific smile bloomed on Lorne's face. “Want a hand?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally made up the part about the license plates, I admit it.


	4. Bad Timing

Snow hissed past the windows in such thick flurries it looked like they were driving through a storm of white moths. Lester drove on in grumpy silence while Lorne looked out the window with rapt attention.

“It just goes on and on out here. It's like Siberia with restaurants.”

Lester gave a little snort-hum through his nose. “try livin' here.”

“You grow up here?”

“Ya...as much I could.” Lester's eyes met his in the rear-view mirror as if daring him to laugh.

Instead Lorne said, “you haven't been a killer long, have you.”

“Now wait just a darn minute—”

“Know how I know? Compassion. You hesitate.”

Lester sighed. “I suppose that's fair.”

“What was your first?”

Lester stared out the windshield for so long Lorne thought he would never answer. But then Lester mumbled something ending in “other.”

“What was that?”

Lester swallowed. “My brother, okay?” He clearly meant it to be the final word on the matter, but that showed he clearly didn't understand Lorne.

“What happened? Was it an accident? You do it for a job?”

A muscle in Lester's jaw tightened. “I don't see why you need to...” he caught Lorne's inquisitive stare. “Okay, fine, you wanna hear about it? We were hunting. I'm clumsy. I dropped the gun and it went off in his face. Got time for it. Manslaughter, 'cause they called it an accident. Also got time off for good behavior because I worked in the library.”

“And was it?”

“Hmm?” Lester was agitated, glancing at his mirrors far more than necessary.

“Was it an accident?”

Lester's stare was burning cold. “I told them it was, ya.”

Lorne cracked a grin. “What about the second?”

Lester seemed to relax a little. “My first wife.”

“Easier, right?”

“Seemed like it,” Lester even smiled a little. “She was always on me about this and that, bit of a nag to be honest.” His expression gained a far-away look. “I...wasn't the best husband, I'll admit. I didn't... _do_ things with her that other husbands did. I guess I never really knew how to be a good person. And after my brother and all that, after I came back, she wasn't a help at all. I couldn't do or say anything against her, because she ' _wasn't the jailbird in the family.'_ ” he affected a nasally falsetto.

Lorne watched without saying a thing. Lester was dissecting himself all on his own, interrupting would spoil the moment.

“Then of course she goes and taunts me with the Hess thing. It's embarrassing really, to have my resume be crimes o' passion. You don't want someone emotional doin' hits, it gets messy. But they saw how I handled myself under pressure. I didn't go to jail for that one...or the next one. And I guess I just turned the right heads.”

Lorne nodded.

Lester looked over, sudden suspicion clouding his face. “What about you, big guy? Huh? This your first time or did I just catch you on your weekly murderin' day?”

Lorne had to laugh. “Believe it or not, that was my first.”

Lester drummed his fingers on the wheel. “That's not hard to believe. You bled that boy like a dumb hog.”

“That's a common misconception,” Lorne said, “pigs are actually very intelligent.”

Lester chuckled and shook his head hopelessly. “You and your animals. I swear.”

Lorne liked animals. They followed a certain internal logic that applied to every decision they made. You never caught a cobra hold back from spitting because it might be impolite. You didn't see a dog stop shitting in the yard because it was embarrassing.

No, they only stopped because you beat them.

“Not that I'm not enjoying this little heart-to-heart,” Lorne said,” but wouldn't sharing information of this magnitude with me usually signify you're going to leave me in a ditch when you're done?”

Lester shot a finger-gun in his direction. “Bingo. And normally I'd say yes, or say no so it comes as a surprise when I shoot you.”

Sounds of the road filled the car.

“So...is that what you're going to do, Lester?”

Lester sighed. “...haven't decided yet, to be honest. Plus, I don't think you're gonna be going to the cops anytime soon.”

Lorne smiled and lifted a shoulder.

Lorne found Lester intriguing. He still had a cage of human niceties that he operated within, but beneath that was teeming animal urges waiting to be released. Lester was blue-black water surging beneath a thin skin of ice.

“So tell me about yourself, Lorne,” Lester said, suddenly forced-cheer. “What makes you want to pick up and follow a killer?”

Lorne sneezed into his sleeve. “I wasn't doing anything better.”

Lester squinted. “Really?”

“You saw my sales pitch.”

“I mean that's really what you're going with?” Lester laughed. “I got a bargain-bin _Silence of the Lambs_ in my car and you're telling me you just...happened? What was it, your dad beat your mom? Mom beat your dad? Was he a drinker or a cheater or something like that? Did your house have lead paint? Come on, give me some deets here.”

“Hannibal.”

Lester had learned at this point not to say ' _what_.' He grimaced out the windshield instead.

“ _Silence of the Lambs_. The guy you're thinking of is Hannibal Lector.”

Lester flicked on the turn signal with an irritated gesture. “What's that got to do with the price of rice in China?”

“Well, you wouldn't be calling Freddy Krueger 'Elm Street' would you?”

Lester grunted. They pulled up to a place called Stucky's.

“Waffles are on me.”

 

Lorne had the chicken-fried steak instead, along with a Mountain Dew that he dumped several creamers into. Lester tucked distractedly into a grilled sandwich, head bobbing up every time headlights washed past the restaurant.

Lorne let it pass the first ten times, and finally asked: “cops?”

Lester started. “No...I was supposed to have an escort. Two company boys. I'm still in Dutch with the boss.”

“Probably car trouble,” Lorne said, dipping a bite of steak into his ramekin of A-1.

Lester shook his head. “Can't afford to fumble this now. I'm taking a big enough risk bringing you...” he trailed off, contemplating his hash browns.

“Thanks,” Lorne said.

Lester looked at him oddly.

“Thanks for bringing me, I mean.”

Lester tapped the table, drumming each finger in sequence. Lorne focused on carefully carving his steak, making even-sided squares of meat and then popping them into his mouth. It was a little like chewing fried newspaper, but it was something to do while Lester stared at him.

Finally Lester said, “what do you want?”

Lorne laid down his knife and fork and smiled. “You keep asking me that.”

“Until I get an answer, yeah.”

“Well,” Lorne said, “what answer do you want? I've given you a few.”

Lester locked gazes with him. His irises were a sharp blue, like the inside of a glacier where the ice was made of snow compressed over millenia until all the air and white squeezed out and left only pure cold. The stare was probably meant to be intimidating, but it was more endearing. Lester had no more fierceness than a gopher, but he was putting all into his eyes.

“I think I like you,” Lorne said aloud.

This threw Lester. He shook his head and smiled wryly. “I'm sorry...you're telling me you...” he looked around the restaurant, as if the FBI would be at the next table, listening in, “...that guy, because you _like_ me?”

“You're not used to hearing that, are you?”

Lester winced and ducked his head, which told Lorne everything he needed to know. It told a story of a loner, a shy boy who had grown up longing for attention, recognition, having to come to terms with his own unexceptionality. It was a sad story, pathetic, and buried within it was probably a sympathetic man, but what grew around it was a shell of learned callousness mistaken for strength. It told Lorne the future, giving instructions on what his actions would be for the next few hours.

“Got a quarter for the gumball machine?” he asked.

Lester snorted out a laugh before he could catch himself. Tension broken, they finished their roadside lunch.

 

Lorne spotted no sleek police car following them as they pulled into a small town, “just a song away from Duluth,” as Lester put it. Lester seemed nervous, unnecessarily straightening his coat and smoothing his hair.

“What's our next step, compadre?” Lorne said. In contrast, he sat perfectly still and relaxed, lounging with one arm up on the door's armrest.

Lester clenched and unclenched his hands, breathing yoga breaths. “You see that place up the street, ya?”

Just down the sidewalk from where they parked, perfectly visible from the car but at such an angle that anyone looking out the window would not have spotted Lorne and Lester, was a little cafe-looking joint.

_Lou's,_ said the sign.

“Yeah-huh.”

“That's it,” Lester said. His gloves made creaking noises as he worked his hands. “I botched the last job. I even botched hiding out with you. This is a suicide mission, I’m sure of it, but I can't get out of doing it—”

“Yes you can,” Lorne said automatically.

Lester shot him an irritated look.

“You don't want to, but there's always a way out of any situation,” Lorne said. “They might kill you, that'd be a way out—”

“And I don't _want_ that,” Lester interrupted, “okay, you're technically right. It's not that I can't, it's just that I got a little too used to breathing.”

Lorne guffawed. Lester looked ruffled.

“Look all I need—” Lester licked his lips and leaned closer, lowering his voice, “all I want from you is to cover me. Wait in the car. If I'm not back after ten minutes, gun the engine. If I'm not back in twenty, drive into the front of the building.”

“Well that sounds dangerous.”

Lester laughed through his nose. He was preparing, priming his gun and hiding bullets on his person. “You wanted in.”

“No,” Lorne said.

Lester gave him A Look.

“I wanted to follow you. That's not necessarily 'in.' I'd hate to meet your bosses.”

Lester, glowering, slapped the glovebox shut. “Just...do it.” he growled.

Lorne popped a thumb up. “Aces!”

Lester rolled his eyes and got out of the car.

 

Lorne gave it five minutes before he got out to stretch his legs. He conveniently did this down an alley where he could still observe the cafe, but remain unseen from inside the building.

Lester was seated in a corner booth, chatting up to an older gentlemen, noticeably nervous.

Lorne sighed to himself. “You have a terrible poker face, Lester.”

As he watched, a familiar oldsmobile parked across the street, the sounds of bickering audible even to him.

“—goddamn mechanic didn't even find anything and you think—”

“—whoa, whoa, whoa, he didn't exactly have _time_ to find anything, you were all—”

Lorne smiled and receded into the background.

There was a tinkle of a doorbell. Then the very deliberate sound of a gun not being fired. Then the sound of the door flinging open, and a scrawny-looking gent with a scrawny-looking mustache stumbling onto the street in a stupid-looking flapped cap. Lorne watched him scamper away in amusement, and then looked for a back door.

 

“...ain't nothing you can do, boys. This ain't Sioux Falls, you got no quarter here.”

The speaker had a rich baritone voice that would have been at home on some frontier sheriff. Lorne, peeking over the kitchen counter, saw it in fact belonged to a middle-aged man with a greasy apron and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He currently held a sawed-off shotgun to a kneeling Lester's chin and addressed officers Budge and Pepper. They both had guns out and, improbably, aimed at Lester.

“No disrespect, sir,” said Pepper, “but you're going down, one way or the other. Whether _he's_ in the way or not.” He gestured towards Lester, who stared back out of glassy eyes. His brain appeared to be running a mile a minute, which meant he was envisioning every scenario ending in his head getting blown off.

A toilet flushed.

Lorne grabbed a butcher knife from the counter and wedged himself in the small space between the refrigerator and the small partition separating the bathroom from the rest of the kitchen. A young lady came out, comely and plump, drying her hands on a paper towel. Presumably she hadn't heard the ruckus.

“Baby stay back!” the man called to her.

The girl instantly went rigid and backed up.

Right into Lorne.

He secured her mouth with a hand and simultaneously prodded her ribs with the knife.

“Quiet, baby girl,” he told her.

She instantly went limp.

 

“I understand your predicament, but you have to realize he really doesn't mean anything to us,” Pepper was saying, “if you want us to leave the girl alone you need—what the hell?”

Lorne shuffled in with his captive. Lester's mouth dropped open.

Lorne looked innocently around the room.

“Bad time?” he asked.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Computer trouble, you know, that old song and dance.   
> You might notice a trend in metaphors in this and later chapters. I kinda picked up something one repeated viewings of the show: while Malvo's motif is animals, Lester's is ice. He claimed to slip on ice in the first episode, nearly got the big chill from Numbers&Wrench, and ice [spoilers redacted] the last episode. So I decided to run with that.


	5. The Dog and Pony Show

Lorne stood with his left hand securing the young woman's waist, his left hand held a knife to her throat. Lester knelt, a shotgun in his face. Budge and Pepper had guns trained on all of them.

“I can come back, if you like,” Lorne offered.

The older gentleman currently threatening Lester's life stared awestruck at him.

“Sheee-it boy.”

“I know,” Lorne said.

“You've just done about the dumbest thing you've ever done in your life.”

“Oh I don't know,” Lorne said, “I've pushed a few 'pull' doors in my time.”

Budge cracked up. Pepper, and pretty much everyone else in the room, looked at him cockeyed.

“Funny!” Budge gasped. “you are a funny man! Mister traffic cop!”

“Actually, my brother-in-law was the cop.”

“Do you even _have_ a sister?”

“Does it even matter?” Pepper cut in.

“ _I_ think it does,” Budge muttered.

The man with a gun to Lester's head blinked twice in quick succession. His voice was a little thick as he asked, “Molly, you okay?”

“Yeah dad,” the girl said breathlessly. She wasn't panicking, which was nice. Lorne smiled.

“How ya doin' Lester?”

“Jim-fucking-dandy,” Lester gasped, “what are you doing?”

Lorne drew back in mock surprise. “Now  _that's_ a good question. I guess the one here who can really field that is the gentleman holding the shotgun to your head—”

“Lou,” said Lou.

“—Lou,” Lorne acquiesced, “he's really the one in charge of this whole dog-and-pony show, isn't he?”

Lou peered inexplicably at him. It was something Lorne got a lot.

“You ain't from town, are you son?”

Lorne shook his head. “No sir, I live in the suburbs.”

“Suburbs of where, hell?” Lou gave a dry, humorless little laugh. “So, let's straighten things out here. I guess Lester here—hi Les—is your buddy.”

“You could call him that.”

“I also take it these fellas here weren't expecting you.”

“Nobody ever does,” Lorne said. Lou fought a smile with a frown.

“You one of those new hitmen the Dane brought in?”

“No, sir, I sell houses.”

Lou couldn't quite figure him out. Neither could the policemen, who were letting their guard drop.

Molly tensed beneath him, and Lorne anticipated the melee.

The girl was good, had probably taken a few self-defense classes. She dropped her weight and slammed her elbow backwards. Too bad Lorne wasn't there anymore. With his left hand, he used her own momentum and spun Molly around, shoving her backwards so she would fall off balance. Lou, seeing this, let the shotgun droop, letting Lester go with his other hand flying out to catch Molly. The cops, seeing this, lined up their shots. Lorne met Budge with the knife, tossing it with deadly accuracy into his neck. Lester, realizing he was free, slammed his palm forward into Pepper's groin. The air _oophed_ out of the officer's lungs as he went splay-legged, gun dropping impotently from his left hand. Budge frothed, dropping his piece to claw at the knife. Lorne caught it before it hit the ground. Lester scrambled after the other officer's gun, which was spinning on the polished tiled floor like a top.

But the time Lou got his daughter behind him and brought the shotgun back up, Lester and Lorne both had guns aimed at him. Pepper writhed on the floor.

“We aren't looking for trouble,” Lester gasped.

“Could've fooled me!” Lou gestured with the shotgun.

Pepper grasped Lester’s pant leg, gurgling. Without taking his eyes off Lou, Lorne shot him in the head.

The gunshot reverberated like a thunderclap. Molly gasped. Even Lester flinched.

“Like he said,” Lorne said, “we ain't looking for trouble.”

Lou's eyes gleamed. With Molly behind him, he became a different animal. Lorne doubted he'd be able to take him, even with Lester running a distraction.

He smiled.

“What the hell you smiling at, laughing boy?” Lou said.

“You know chimps?”

Beside him, Lester sighed.

“Chimps. Closest human relative,” Lorne said. “They tell you to never smile at a chimp. Chimps don't smile because they're happy. When they smile at you, they're baring their teeth. You smile at a chimp, they take it as a challenge. And they're meat-eaters, chimps. They'll even hunt and eat monkeys, because they see 'em as lesser animals. Humans? Just bigger monkeys. Tear your face right off.”

Lou stared at him. “Good god.”

“Tell me about it,” Lester sighed.

Lorne glanced fondly at Lester.

“The way I see it mister, you got a choice. You can try to take us down, and maybe we'll go down, maybe we won't. I can promise you we won't go down quiet. What I can't promise is that nothing will happen to Molly—hi Molly—over there.”

Lou looked at Lorne with something approaching terror. Sirens kicked up in the distance.

Lester leaned over. “That's Bill, guy you saw running out of here? He's a shit cop, but he's in Lou’s back pocket. So're his deputies. And between the ten of them, there just might be a lucky shot.”

“In a minute,” Lorne muttered back, not taking his eyes off Lou. Lou was doing some quick mental math, and someone had just thrown in an extra symbol.

Finally, he pointed his shotgun up at the ceiling.

“I don't want to see you two boys again,” he said.

The bell tinkled as they backed out. Molly stared after them, wide-eyed. Lester slid a little on the sidewalk and grabbed onto Lorne's back for support.

They ran.

Lester was gulping air by the time they reconvened by a dumpster.

“—money—car–safehouse,” he gasped.

Lorne, who had not broken a sweat, watched him impassively.

“And then what?”

Lester eyed him oddly. Lorne wasn't sure how Lester could still be surprised by him.

It was a little disappointing. Lorne wanted Lester to surprise _him_.

“Tell me,” Lester said in between breaths, “are you one of them high-functioning sociopaths?”

“Don't be childish.”

Lester grabbed the front of his jacket in a fist. “I gotta get back. I gotta explain—”

“And then what?”

Lester shook him a little.

“What will you do then, Lester?” Lorne asked. The day was rapidly turning sour. “They tried to kill you. They almost did.”

“I'm sure they just...” Lester's breath went haggard. “I'll blame it on Tweedle-Dumb and -Dumber in there, they've been close to 'retirement' for a year now—”

“And _then_ what?” Lorne said. “They still don't respect you. They never did. You don't respect you. Every setback is a blessing in disguise, don't you get it?”

Lester looked up at him, hands on his knees. “You're beginning to sound like the inspirational poster from hell, you know that?”

Lorne cocked his head, studying Lester.

“What do _you_ want, Lester?” he asked softly.

Lester looked irritated. “I thought that was clear enough– _I don't wanna_ _**die** _ _ , thank you very much. _ ”

“No, Lester,” Lorne said, “what do you **want?** ”

Lester's mouth opened and closed a few times.

“I don't–” he shook his head, “I don't get what you’re asking–”

Lorne slugged him in the stomach. Lightly, but Lester still crumpled. Lorne wound his scarf an extra turn around his face, put his hands in his pockets, and walked hunched into the wind. A few streets down, there was a car idling in front of a two-story dutch colonial, probably warming up. Lorne got in and drove away.

 

Lester opened his front door after undoing a complex-seeming series of locks.

“Hon!” he called, laughing breathlessly, “Hon, you would not _believe_ the day I had at the office. So Lenny rolls up on me and he asks, 'hey Lester, you every been to Acapulco?' and I said back, 'well if you count coffee' and after we had a bit of a laugh, he said there was a big-shot down–”

“Sweetie,” Linda Nygaard cooed, “you have a guest.”

Lester poised in the doorway, mouth open, jacket hanging off one arm.

“Howdy,” Lorne said.

“Lorne was just telling me you did business out in–I’m sorry, where was that?”

“Out west,” Lorne said, still staring at her husband. Lester proved still capable of surprising him. He had shut down his face and calmly removed his jacket, arranging his face into a placid smile the moment his wife glanced over for reassurance.

“Oh ya, but _where_ out west?” she probed teasingly, “Lester's so close-mouthed about his business, he says it's all man-stuff, but I bet–”

“ _Hon_ ,” Lester said in a slightly strained voice, “did you get our guest a drink?”

“Of course, the second he came in.” Linda hit her temple with her palm. “you probably want one too, don't ya hon?”

“'preciate it,” Lester murmured, accepting her kiss to the side of his mouth, never once taking his eyes off Lorne.

“Well,” he said once they were alone, “well, well.”

Lorne looked up and about. “Nice place you got here. You say you bought it on an insurance salesman’s salary?”

“Yup.” Lester smiled a chimp's grimace. “Get paid on commission.”

“You don't say?” Lorne chuckled. “Me too. Myself, I sell houses.”

Lester shook his head. “Bless you Lorne Malvo, you are  _ wasted _ on real estate.”

“Charmed,” Lorne said.

Linda bustled back with her husband's drink, guiding the two men to the entertainment area, where they made conversation. Lorne had no idea what he actually said, but Linda and Lester laughed at all the right places. He had learned long ago that the actual content of his speech mattered little.

Lester patted Linda's hip at a little after ten-thirty. “Hey hon, you sure you don't want to get to bed? You got that thing in the morning.”

“Oh no, it's not _that_ early,” Linda said, and then uncertainly stammered, “U-unless you want a little alone time with your friend here, I know you like 'man talk' and anyway, I think I’m getting one of those migraines, so I guess I better go hibernate before I turn into a bear.” She finished off with a laugh like cut glass.

Lester kissed her good night. Linda giggled like a flustered schoolgirl and tripped up the stairs.

“She is a gem,” Lorne said.

“She's a fucking diamond, now what are you doing in my house?” Lester said.

“You don't have a dog. Odd, living way out here, that you wouldn't have a dog or at least a cat.”

“Linda's allergic,” Lester said, “don't go off on a tangent, you tell me why you're here.”

Lorne eased back into the overstuffed sofa and laced his hands behind his head.

“You tell _me_ why you're here.”

“Ohhhhh _no_ ,” Lester said, standing, “we are not playing it like this. You are in _my_ house–”

“And so are you,” Lorne said, “alive and looking pretty whole, though I can't really see your torso, and you are favoring your middle a bit.”

“Yeah,” Lester said, “you punched me. Remember?”

“But besides that?”

Lester sat again, this time closer to Lorne. He pressed his hands together in front of his face, rocking back and forth slightly. Nerving himself.

“You had the cops after you. The cops and the mob. You gave 'em both the slip.”

Lester looked at him. Lorne realized he had let a little affection creep into his voice.

“This is a sick game for you, isn't it?” Lester declared in monotone. “This is my _life_ , not some social experiment–” he slapped the upholstery suddenly. “Are you listening you psycho?”

Lorne was grinning. He couldn't stop himself.

“You didn't even allow yourself a moment to be proud of what you did? You killed a man in cold daylight and got away with it.”

Lester swallowed, suddenly shy. He fidgeted.

“I just...I only brought him down,” he said, “you finished him off.”

“But you acted,” Lorne said, “in a space of time not a lot of people can operate in. you didn't lose your cool. I'm proud of you.”

Lester didn’t know how to take that. “Thank you?” he said lamely.

Lorne patted his back. “You didn't let failure get you down. You see what I mean about setbacks? The only thing you need to do is keep surfing on that momentum.”

Despite himself, Lester looked a bit relived. “Okay, okay, what's our next move chessmaster?”

“We burn down your house,” Lorne said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since when did I start ending these things with cliffhangers?


	6. Waste not, want not

Lester squiggled a finger in his ear. “Pardon me...I didn't quite catch that.”

Lorne drank off half the scotch he'd gotten for himself. “We burn your house down with the both of you in it. Not sure what you want to do about your wife, I can't tell you what to do there. But we can put a body in here that can stand in for you, provided we take the proper precautions.

Lester mouthed half-words. “I'm sorry...proper precautions? Where are we getting a body?”

“I have one,” Lorne said casually, “in the trunk. Your wife's fitness guy. I think he said his name was Chump? Anyway, if we destroy his head they can't do dental.”

Lester's eye had developed an interesting tic. “You've been busy, haven't you?”

“Well, you know what they say, 'waste not, want not'.”

They sat still for a beat. Then Lester was halfway to the sliding-glass door and Lorne was tackling him.

“Lester– _Lester_ , be cool, I need you to be calm for me, okay?” Lorne had a knee in his back and his arms gripping Lester's shoulders. Lester struggled and bit like a cornered rat.

“Get. Off. Of. Me. You. Fucking. Psycho!” he gasped, breath being squashed out of him.

Lorne leaned his full weight down, spreading out the distribution so as not to crush Lester's ribs. “Lester, you know I'm right.”

“I don't care if you're right, you're fucking _nuts!”_ Lester coughed.

The disappointment sat heavy in Lorne's stomach.

“C'mon Lester,” he murmured in his ear, “where's that can-do spirit? What ticked your fight-or-flight over to flight? You attached to her? That's okay, we'll bring her along. I can—”

Lester scrabbled futilely at Lorne's hands. “I've had  _enough_ of your help, you– you– _realtor._ ”

Lorne loosened his grip so suddenly Lester, who had been straining all his might in the other direction, hit the floor with an  _ooph_ .

Lorne sighed sadly. “Lester. Oh, Lester.”

Beneath him, Lester got a cagey look in his eyes.

“You're not _trying_ Lester,” Lorne said, ruffling his hair. “This is what your first wife meant. This is what your bosses mean. You hit an impasse and you stop dead. Do you want to spend the rest of your life running? Is that what you want?”

Lester had stilled, looking very calm and serious. “...and you, Lorne? What do you want?”

Lorne shrugged. “Nothing, really. I don't get why people ask me that. I've never really wanted anything.” He leaned in closer, put his lips by Lester's ear. “You know—”

Something took out the ear of the big moose head over the fire. Lorne looked up to see Linda, hands shaking so hard she could barely hold the little handgun still.

Lorne smiled reassuringly. “Hon, you wanna put that down? You might hurt someone.”

“Yeah,” Linda said, “you. Get off my husband.”

Her voice had almost no conviction in it, but Lorne liked her incentive and obediently stood. Lester immediately reinflated with the breath Lorne had been squeezing and rolled to his back. While Lorne calmly walked backwards at Linda's direction, Lester got to his knees and gulped air.

“Linda,” Lester gasped, furling a hand toward his wife, “you wanna give me that?”

Linda did not take her eyes off Lorne, horrified fascination writ in every line in her face. Lorne made sure to keep eye contact, smiling gently. Linda's mouth fluttered open, and then shut.

Lester coughed, arm bracing his middle. “Here, gimme the gun and I'll take care of it, Linda.”

Linda mouthed something, unable to force air over her vocal chords. Lorne kept smiling.

“Linda.”

“Stop,” Linda said, too softly. Lorne kept smiling.

“ _Linda.”_

“ _He won't stop._ ” her voice wavered a little louder this time.

Lester looked at her, brow furrowed. “What?”

“Stop!” Linda wailed, too late. Lorne had backed into the kitchen, and now he slammed the door. He could hear the scuffle from the other side, Lester's irritated demands, Linda's wailed reproach.

Lorne could just make out  _don't, don't_ –

The door swung wide, and Lester dashed headfirst into the griddle Lorne held out. That hit didn't get him, but the floor did. Lorne bent over Lester's prone body with interest. A wretched scream stabbed at him from the den. Lorne looked up and held out a comforting hand.

“Linda, hon, don't–”

Linda had dropped the souvenir tomahawk she had taken up as a weapon and screamed like a horror-movie, holding her hands in front of her mouth, fingers fanned, and sounding off in a C sharp.

“Linda,” Lorne called.

Linda tripped over her own feet in her haste to escape the den.

“Linda, the door–”

Linda crashed headlong into sliding-glass door, the shards slicing her deep.

Lorne overlooked it impassively. “...huh.”

He turned back to Lester. The little guy was out cold. A finger snapped right by his ear didn't rouse him, and his eyes, when the lids were peeled back, were rolled up into his skull.

“Huh,” he said again.

The doorbell rang.

“Lester?...Les? Open up big guy. It's just me.”

Lorne answered the door with a shotgun, blowing both barrels into Bill's torso. Bill hit the reddened snow with a really surprised look on his face.

Lore stepped just outside the door and looked to either side. He really had come alone.

“Huh.”

 

“Oh ya, it's a buyer's market right now. ...'course, don't let the boss know I told you that, I might get fired.” Lorne dropped a grin that practically twinkled.

His client looked around the house. “Wasn't there a murder here?”

Lorne got a shocked look on his face. “Here? Right on La Vista Court?”

The man who was currently buying the house for his much-much-younger wife(waiting out in the sedan) looked around, as if he'd find bodies in the peeling paint.

“Yeah, said it was a drug deal gone south or somesuch.”

Lorne's face jumped to an exaggerated parody of mirth. “Drugs? In La Vista? Where, behind the Safeway?”

The customer still wasn't convinced. “Said they found a guy in the cellar all bled out. Real horrorshow.”

Lorne switched tactics. He hit his head with his palm. “Boy, wish you'd told me sooner. I could've made a mint.”

The man looked over, suspicious. His nose sat back in his head so that his nostrils stared Lorne in the face too.

“Imagine it: put the address on the internet, charge for tours. Those freaks would eat this up, like that whatsit—Skinwalker Ranch.” Lorne shook his head in wonderment. “of course...if you don't want it, I can always use that as plan B...” he trailed off slyly.

Lorne could practically hear the tortured scream of the gears turning in his head.

“No!” he burst out, and then composed himself. “Let me...I need to have a talk with the little lady.”

Lorne got the paperwork in order as the couple held a conversation through the passenger-side window. The phrase fragment “but it _smells_ ” floated back to him. He chuckled as he starred the places the man would have to sign.

This would be the third time he had turned the La Vista Court house over in as many months. Every time, the occupants had apologized to _him_ , saying it was nothing he did, it was just the house wasn't right. On the whiteboard at the office, Lorne's magnet-car was neck-and-neck with Buzz Mead's.

Once the couple left, their signatures in his files, Lorne walked through the house, turning off lights, closing doors. This was his favorite part of the day. The house was empty and waiting like a hungry mouth. Soon new people would come in to fill it up with their smell, their noise, and the house would spit them out.

Lorne had changed the faucet head in the kitchen for one that dribbled and spat. To the toe-crunching patio, he had added decorative iron leaf, so that the stub would scrape as well. The toilet now had a distressing tenancy to clog. The windows all sat crooked in their tracks, none could be closed completely. The AC blew a distinctive odor, which Lorne had composed himself out of several rotting items. The carpet curled at every doorway. All these little touches, Lorne believed, really made a home. Specifically, it made a home with a very lucrative turnover rate.

 

Back at the office, he endured the finger-guns and ass-pats that were hallmarks of his office. Since that bizarre double-murder(Rundle had been in cahoots, did you hear? The fella killed a cop and then double-crossed Rundle, left him on the desk) and the theft of his car, Lorne had become a sort of cause  célèbre in the office. Once his sales took off, that had been it. 

Lorne shuffled papers into place on his desk. File that, pocket this so that there was no legal record of the transaction, shred and burn these. He had become such an efficient record-keeper that the accountant had boasted of how easy Lorne's tax return was to sort out.

Lorne had walked through the halls with a spring in his step and a whistle on his lips ever since he'd come back. His fellow realtors marveled at how he had suddenly taken to work, blaming his previous ennui on Rundle's obvious office favoritism.

Everyone in the office had left. Lorne was stapling a receipt to a form when the doorbell tinkled.

“Yes, hi, hello, I came here to speak to a Mister Murphy? I had a question about the loft.” said a nasally man's voice.

Lorne didn't look up from the papers he was sorting. “Sorry sir, you're plumb outta luck, Burt's gone home.”

Something clicked just above his temple.

“Good, that means you're alone here,” Lester growled.

Lorne looked up and smiled. “I missed you too, sweetie.”

Lester's jaw worked, his eyes burned blue like the flame of a propane torch. The gun pointing at Lorne's temple had a silencer. Lorne's eyes traveled from the barrel, up past Lester's ragged sleeves, to his face. There was a white stripe of bandage across his nose.

“How's the head?'

“Fuck you,” Lester offered.

Lorne chuckled. “Now Lester, you don't really mean that.”

Lester had not moved a single molecule since Lorne had looked up. “Linda's dead.”

“You mean you actually liked her?” Lorne's curiosity was genuine.

“That doesn't matter.” Lester's hand was steady. “I hope you've enjoyed life so far.”

Lorne looked up at the man with a gun to his head. “To be honest...I haven't.”

Lester gave a tense little laugh. “Not a surprise.”

Lorne blinked very slowly. “...you asked me once what I wanted? I don't really _want_ anything, Lester.”

“You said that.”

Lorne shook his head. “No. You don't get it. I really don't want anything. I don't feel a whole lot. I'm not happy, or sad, or even angry, really. I want things to be different. I want to be surprised, because that means I'm wrong. But I'm never wrong. Know what they call people like me?”

“A monster.” Lester didn't miss a beat.

“I used to think there wasn't a place for me in the world. That I would have to act like other people and fit into the slot they made for me. I thought I was completely alone.”

“You are.”

Lester smiled. This smiled was different than any he had shown Lester so far. It was small, and showed in his eyes more than his mouth. It was wistful. It seemed sincere.

“I was.”

Lester had not wavered, had not dropped eye contact. “If you think I'm gonna buy that ' _we're not so different_ ' crap—”

“No, see, that's not it.” Lorne eagerly turned in his chair to face Lester. Lester backed away accordingly. “We're the same. We're pretending to be the people they want us to be. I'm playing a realtor. You're playing–”

“—a pissed-off hitman,” Lester said, “who's done listening to you.”

“Did you like her?”

Lester gritted his teeth. Then he said, “Who?”

“Your wife.”

“Which wife?”

“Either one. The first one, before you started hating her, did you really love her? Was it her you loved, or the part of yourself you could see in her? Linda,was it her you liked or how attentive she was to you?”

A realization was creeping reluctantly into Lester's face. “You stop that, now.”

“You weren't happy. Because the things that made you happy...no one else understood. So you learned to hide them. And then you forgot about them and convinced yourself that it wasn't possible to be happy, settled for being comfortable. Because when you acted the way they wanted, they stopped bothering you, didn't they?”

Lester looked slightly horrified and had backed up a half-step.

“Hess probably gave you a few good knocks in the ribs, huh? But how did he take it when you stood up for yourself? He hit harder. Your wife, how did she react when she found out she couldn't browbeat you anymore?”

Lester realized he had let the gun lag and pointed it up and Lorne's chin. “That's enough.”

“Linda,” Lorne said, “you couldn't love her. You couldn't really love her because you _knew_ she didn't love the real you, only the parts you let everyone see. And you hated her for that. You hated her for being a good person, too, because it meant you couldn't blame how you felt on her.”

Lester had started crying at some point, wiping tears on the shoulder of his jacket.

“Lester,” Lorne said, almost compassionately.

“Shut up,” Lester said, toffee-nosed.

“Fellas,” said Molly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! I'll be sad to see it end, but end it must. I don't think I have much more zany cliffhangers left in me, anyway.


	7. And the Sky Was Opened...

Lorne hadn’t got a good look at Molly one the day he'd met her, just a flash impression of eyes and hair and full-moon cheeks before he'd pressed her back against his chest and held a knife to her throat. His impression had been had been of comeliness, nice, but nothing to write home about.

Now he could see Molly was pretty. More than that. She had sad eyes and a smile that dimpled her cheek as she leveled a sleek German pistol at the both of them.

Lorne coughed into his hand and crossed his legs. "Excuse me, ma'am. This doesn't normally happen."

"No biggie." Her cheeks flushed but her eyes were alive with merriment.

Behind her, the sign in the door had been flipped so that “open” faced inward.

“You know your door was locked. Had a dickens of a time trying to get in.” Dhe was really warming to her role.

“Really? Sorry, not sure how that happened.” Lorne cocked his head. “How'd you find me?'

"I've been tracking you boys since you made my dad have a conniption"

"Well, well, well, and you pop in just as ol' Lester here digs me up? Must be providence."

"Not really. I followed him here. Figured he'd lead me right to you." She did that funny little half-smile again. "Of the two of you, I figured you'd be harder to track."

"So you applied your energy to the easier route," Lorne mused, "smart girl."

Lester wet his lips and bounced his gaze back and forth between them. “Excuse me...did I miss a few pages? I'm glad you two are getting along, but do you mind telling me what the fuck is happening?”

“Real simple, Lester,” Molly said, aiming dead center at his forehead, “you boys are getting on the floor, face to face, and I'm tying ya up. Call it payback.”

Lester grumbled as he got on his knees, puffy orange coat inflating in odd places as he tried to get on his side with his arms held behind his back. Lorne complied much more gracefully in his white office shirt and slacks.

Molly was good with knots. She had Lorne's wrists together in no time flat, and Lorne wasn't sure if he'd be able to slip them free, but he would have fun trying.

Lester smoldered. He kept his breaths short to minimize the contact between their chests, which became moot when she decided to bind their bodies together as well.

Lester twisted slightly, trying to leverage his torso away from Lorne's. "You couldn't have used more rope?"

"Nope." Molly finished securing their legs together. "There was some bungee cord in the back of your durango, and you ever seen that movie The Ref? I'm a big fan. got a kick out of it." She twanged the line between their knees.

Lorne laughed. Lester shot him a withering glare.

“What? That was funny.”

When Molly finished, she stood with her hands on her hips. “Now, don't you boys look all nice. Tidy, like a little present.”

“What now?” Lorne asked. Lester kneed him a little.

Molly put a finger to her lips. “I'm gonna make a phone call.

She sat with her feet up on Gail's desk, pistol in one hand, other hand twiddling the phone cord.

“Um,” Lester said.

Lorne shifted. “Sorry. Can't help it.”

Lester scowled.

“What?”

Lester's scowl deepened.

“Okay, besides that, what?”

Lester shook his head incredulously.

“I don't think we can play charades with out hands bound, so you should probably speak while you can.”

“You killed my wife.”

“I didn't kill her,” Lorne said, “the door did.”

Lester's eye twitched.

“I did kill Bill though.” He paused. “Hey!”

Either Lester didn't get the reference or he wasn't in the mood. They were equally likely.

“The cops swarmed my place. They couldn't find their ass with a flashlight and a GPS unit, but it was a little too convenient to ignore. I got watched every. Waking. Hour. Of my life. If it wasn't the cops, it was the bosses. I am basically persona non grata thanks to you.”

Lorne smiled genuinely. “You're welcome.”

Lester hitched a breath in his chest. He kneed Lorne again. He didn't have much room to draw back, but it still hurt.

“What the hell was all that stuff about bein' disappointed in me, huh? Is this it? Is this what I get for disappointing you?”

“No,” Lorne said, “this is what you get from disappointing her.”

Molly waved a bit from the desk.

“Lester, you're taking this all wrong. I don't want to get you in trouble, I want to get you out. You're stuck, and you don't know you are. I understand. I used to be, too.”

“–but you came back!” Lester broke in, “you kill my wife and two cops and you come back here–”

Molly _shh'd_ forcefully. “I'm on the phone!'

Lester mouthed _'sorry'_ and continued, “–you come right back here to play _realtor_. How can you do that and then act like nothing happened?”

“Lester,” Lorne said, confused, “it's always been an act. I just got better at it.”

Lester cleared his throat. “well I wasn't acting.” He bristled at Lorne's chuckle. “I wasn't. I...liked Linda.”

“Good for you.”

“And I wasn't about to drop all that and play cops and robbers with you,” Lester snapped. His voice took on a gentler note, "Lorne...what was your plan? That we'd live on the lam, being murder boyfriends?"

"Not exactly, no."

“You don't get it. Freedom of choice doesn't mean freedom from the consequences. I was...comfortable, I'll admit it. I can live with being mediocre. I can live with not being my best. I can live with not trying. What I _can_ live without is you filling my life with chaos. I don't like surprises, and I don't like moving around a lot. I became a hitman so I wouldn't have to do any heavy lifting.”

“Never helped anyone move?”

“No,” Lester said, “and that's another thing. The questions. You ask these things, when you've gotta know the answer from the get-go. Why?”

Lorne took a while to answer. He lay there with his cheek pillowed on a receipt for the house where they had first met.

“Because I always hope I'll get an answer I wasn't expecting.”

“Aw,” Molly said, standing over them, “you two are just too cute. I'd like to take you home and bait a hook with you.”

“Big fisher?” Lester asked fatuously.

“Yup.” Molly crossed her arms. “so's this guy.”

The young man stepped forward from the shadows behind Molly, copper hair gleaming in the light from Lorne's desk, jacket fringe trembling with anticipation.

“You might know each other.”

Lorne nodded politely. “how do?”

The K-9 officer stared with stormy eyes down at them. Beside Lorne, Lester went rigid with fear.

“It was hard for me to get help. Everyone wants to protect the little lady, but no one wants to go to bat for her. But this fella here, he understands what it's like being second-guessed for your own good. And when I told him I knew you two, well...that was it.”

“Really?” Lorne murmured. “How magical. You two have any hobbies?”

Keeping eye contact with Lorne, the young man drew a barbed thumb across his throat.

 

Lester was panicking. He kept mumbling and twitching and it was starting to put Lorne off.

A roll of duct tape thudded on the floor beside them.

“Bingo!” Molly popped up from where she'd been rooting in Mead's desk. “Told ya they'd have tape.”

The man Molly had introduced as Mr. Wrench sat in Lorne's chair, rocking gently and keeping watch over them, gun laid in his lap. There was a coil of piano wire and a small propane torch on the floor beside him.

“So ya kill us, and then what?” Lorne asked.

Wrench lifted his chin and made two, distinct kiss noises. Three German Shepherds loped out from the front of the office and over to Wrench. He gathered them up, making snuffling noises as they nosed his face and scratching their ears.

“Wow, this is not my day.”

Molly vaulted over the desk, landing a scant five inches from his head. She grinned. “Tell me about it.”

“I don't know if saying this is going to make any difference,” Lorne said, “but I didn't kill your dad. I didn't even nick you.”

“Good on ya.” The humor had fled her face.

“I'm just saying...what did we really do to you? I mean, I can understand _him–_ ” Lorne craned his head back to look at Wrench, “but you? We both know there was no way in hell Lester coulda killed your dad.”

“Thanks,” Lester said.

“They sent him there so he could _be_ killed. He was never a threat. So why this?”

Molly wet her lips. She bent low, hair falling off her forehead.

“You know my dad...he's real protective of me.”

Lorne nodded.

“He won't let me join the business. Won't even let me pack a gun, just in case some _real_ cops grab me.”

She leaned closer, eyes luminous and blue. “The way I see it, though, even if you aren't packing, you can still be shot to death. You follow me?”

Lorne nodded again. “Close behind.”

“Good. 'Cause I have a feeling if I don't smash you, you're just gonna scuttle under another rock and try it again.”

Lester stifled a sob.

Molly turned her attention to him, smiling in an almost motherly fashion. “Don't worry, boys. We'll get on with this, and then we'll get...” she paused. “does anyone hear knocking?”

Lester looked just as confused as Wrench, but Lorne had heard. He had heard it long before anyone, expect maybe the dogs. And it wasn't knocking.

He cleared his throat. “Storm's coming in. Winds as high as 50 miles per hour predicted.”

Molly looked uneasy. “What, like a thunderstorm?”

The knocking was getting louder. Little puffs of dust rained down on them from the ceiling, where Rundle Realty's resident termites had been living in peace for generations.

“Sounds like hail,” Lorne said casually.

Wrench was staring out the window, where the windshield of his pickup had spiderwebbed with cracks.

Molly glanced at him, then out the window. “Does it...it hail a lot around here?”

Lorne looked at her. “Never.”

A chunk of plaster hit one of the dogs on the nose. It yelped and started backwards, into Wrench's legs. Wrench, who had stood when the hail started, sat back down so violently the chair tipped. Molly watched opnemouthed, then found herself unbalancing as well when Lorne grabbed her foot. Operating by touch alone, Lorne found pressure points on her ankles and toppled Molly like a tree.

Another chunk of ceiling detached.

“What the hell?” Lester said, putting into words the thoughts of pretty much everyone but Lorne.

Lorne took the moment's opportunity to flex his wrists, bringing a loop of the rope over and off his hands. From there, he easily unwound the rest of the ropes from his wrist. Lorne flung his arms around Lester and rolled.

Molly, who had been regaining her footing, fell forward when the Lorne-dozer barreled into her shins. She landed on one of the dogs, who whined and snapped at her. Wrench had another one by the scruff because it kept diving into his legs out of fear. The other one dove sideways into his calf and it crumpled. Wrench fell sideways this time.

Then the roof came down.

Large flakes of cheap plaster, spongy wood, and shingle rained down upon them, along with baseball-sized chunks of hail. The dogs ran, tails tucked over their nethers. Wrench came up on all fours, and a hailstone winged his temple. He went down yet again. Molly's cheek was already raised in a purple welt as she tugged on his arm.

Lorne kept his arm around Lester and rolled until they were beneath Buzz Mead's Freudianly large desk. Ice hit the teak and bounced, spraying frozen chips everywhere.

Molly let out a cry and pressed a hand to her back. Blood was streaming from Wrench's temple.

“Fuck,' Lester said, and buried his face in Lorne's shoulder.

Lorne kept his body on the side closest to the open, but nothing hit him.

There were occasional yelps as Molly dragged Wrench out to the patio, where Lorne assumed they would attempt to find shelter beneath the sheet-metal patio furniture. He busied himself in untying Lester's hands, a task made more difficult by Lester, who wouldn’t stop moving for one second. One bungee cord had broke free and coiled lazily on the floor when Lorne finally worked a single loop over Lester's chubby fists. The second his hands were free, Lester gripped the front of Lorne's shirt.

“The world is going insane!” he bellowed.

Lorne gripped his wrists and shouted back, “I know!”

Lester was awestruck. Then he grabbed Lorne's face and kissed him fiercely.

The ceiling fan hit the floor with a thud.

Lorne broke the kiss. “I think the coast is clear.”

Lester was suddenly sheepish. “Ya, I guess–I guess we better...”

They stood up, surveying the damage. Out on the patio, Molly had lost her gun, dabbing at Wrench's head with the hem of her shirt.

One final projectile zinged into a metal folding chair, inches from Lester's head. He started, hands pressed over his heart.

Lorne bent down and hefted the fist-sized chunk of ice. “Lucky that didn't cave in your skull.”

Lester fidgeted, patting himself nervously. “...my wife used to say you make your own luck.”

“Really?” Lorne said, “How'd you swing this one?”

Lester laughed.

 

They took the pickup. Lester's car had been on its last legs anyway, and Lorne's car had been sabotaged in three separate methods.

“How the hell was I supposed to know they were coming?” Lester asked over the roar of the wind.

Together, they had punched in the safety glass of the windshield, and were currently cruising along listening to a Santana tape.

“Guess it doesn't matter,” Lorne said, “it's not like you can undo any of it anyway.” He signaled a turn with his hand. Wrench's tail lights were both out.

Lester laughed and looked up at the sky. He had been doing a lot of that on the drive. Their hands lay clasped on the seat between them, riding on the old school metal lap-belt buckles and Wrench's sunglasses. Lester had been doing a lot of that, too.

They hit a Y junction and Lorne slowed to a halt. There was no other car in sight so he put it in park.

Lester wiped a few errant chunks of ice from his hair, brushed off his coat, and crossed his arms.

“How do I look?”

Lorne lay his forearm over the steering wheel. “Ready.”

Lester's smile dimmed. “Aww. Don't do that to me.”

Instead of asking _what_ , Lorne remained silent.

Lester heaved a sigh.

“You know...” he started, “maybe....in another time and place, this is all different. We meet on opposite sides of the fence. In another universe, this all turns out differently. You're the one with the bloody past, and I'm the desk jockey. And we meet, and I'm the one who gets inspired. Do you think it would end the same way?”

Lorne found it hard to look at him. “Can't say.”

“Not even a guess?”

“I don't deal in uncertainty.”

Lester guffawed.

“No,” he said, “that you don't.”

He tossed an arm around Lorne's shoulder.

“It's a long way to the big blue ox.”

“I know a house,” Lorne said, starting the pickup.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...wait, no. That's can't be the end, can it? *checks notes* noooo, I don't want it to be over yet! Maybe I have some more *checks notes again* crap, no I don't.
> 
> Welp, I guess that is all she wrote, folks. My thanks to all the people who read and reviewed.  
> Aw, heck. Thanks to everyone who read, period.


	8. Epilogue

There was a knock at the front door, followed by a rhythmic ringing of the doorbell that mimicked the chorus of “Funkytown.” Burt Canton, who had done “emergency dental” work on a few reluctant partners of the local mafia, looked through the peep hole. A gormless grin met his eyeball.

Burt opened the door on a chain. “Can I help you?”

The fussy little man with ginger hair and a crisp summer suit kept his grin at 1000 watts. One hand gripped a case, one hand held out in greeting.

“Hey there, I'm Lorne Malvo for Bo Munk insurance?” Lester said.

Burt took the chain off the door and grabbed his magnum, keeping it hidden behind him as he opened the door a little wider.

“Did you not see the 'no soliciting' sign, junior?”

Lester gave a tight little laugh. “Oh, this isn't soliciting, believe me. Do I have the honor of addressing Bart Canton?” He had a Minnesota Nice accent so thick you could spread it on bread.

Burt squinted. “Bart's my brother.”

“Oh, so then I've missed him?” Lester gave a theatrical snap. “Shucks, and here I was hoping to close the deal. I don't mind telling you this puts me in a tight spot.”

Burt cleared his throat. “So...Lorne? Can I get a card?”

Lester patted his pockets. “Oh sure! Ah...lemme see.”

Lester fished through his side and breast pockets for the card as Burt surreptitiously looked around. No cars, except the sedan he assumed the salesman had taken. Lester made an 'aha' gesture and lifted one from his back pocket. He held it out at arm's length. “There we are.”

The card was just slightly too far away to reach by hand. Burt tucked the gun in his back pocket and stepped halfway through the door.

Lester held onto the card. “You sure I can't talk to you about a policy? I was all wound up to sign someone up, I got to bragging to the fellas at the office. Get paid on commission, y'know.”

Burt managed to prise the card out of his grasp. “No, thank you.”

A gun cocked somewhere near his temple.

“Oh trust me,” Lorne said, “you're going to want insurance.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okayokayokay, NOW I'm ending it. I just could help adding one last little bit. ;P

**Author's Note:**

> So, in case you couldn't tell, this is set in an AU where Lorne and Lester start out on opposite sides of the law. It's not really Lornester now and I can't promise it will be in the future. And yes, there will be death. I'm sorry.


End file.
